


On Call

by takethisnight_wrapitaroundme



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Gen, I don't know who I love more drunk!Kurt or drunk!Oscar, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 15:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16767481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme/pseuds/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme
Summary: The boys get absolutely trashed at Reade's bachelor party, and call the only responsible one left for help—Jane, of course.





	On Call

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I haven't had this much fun writing a fic in ages. (And Kurt probably hasn't had this much fun in all his life.) Readers, please enjoy! :D This story was originally inspired by the tumblr prompt: joscar + "Calm down? I will NOT [air quotes] calm down!"

A number of things went wrong that night, but the first mistake, they all would later agree, was listening to Tasha. The second mistake was trying to act like they were better than her. The third mistake—well, by that point in the night, there were so many mistakes that they all blended into one another. But the problems all started with Tasha, on Monday, leaning over Reade's desk and uttering the words, "We're seeing strippers."

Reade had laughed at first, not even bothering to look up from his work. "No, you're not, Zapata."

But when she didn't say anything further, and he glanced up and saw that self-satisfied smirk on her face, he faltered.

"You're… _not_." It came out more as a plea this time—and a fearful one at that.

Tasha shrugged, turning back to her paperwork as if the answer were of no consequence.

"Believe whatever you like," she replied, "but I'm telling you how it is. Sarah's only got a few weeks of freedom left. And you can bet all your fancy little suits that _we_ are seeing strippers."

The mature move at that point, of course, would have been to go directly to the woman in question. Sarah was his fiancée, she was going to be his wife in a month, and he could ask her something as simple as what she was doing for her bachelorette party. Of course they'd promised to give each other space to do whatever they wanted on their own terms, but he could ask this, right?

Well, he tried. He tried thirteen different times over the course of that week to ask her, but the words never quite came out. The closest he came to asking was on Friday, when she was halfway out the door with her bag and he blurted, "You going to be gone all weekend?" even though he knew the answer perfectly well. They'd agreed: she'd have her weekend with the girls; he'd have his with the boys. They'd have another couple weekends together, and then they'd be married.

But she smiled at the question, commenting with a laugh that he looked rather nervous in the face of her departure. "You sure you can survive the next few nights without me?"

He thought of all the images Tasha had put in his head, of Sarah with half-naked men, or fully naked men, ones she liked much better than him, and he almost said, _No_. He almost broke, and asked her what she was going to do this weekend, and with whom, and if she was looking forward to enjoying it. But he couldn't make himself get the words out.

"Just, um, hurry back," he said finally, and she beamed at the worry in his voice, stepping back inside to kiss him on the cheek.

"Just a couple nights, I promise," she whispered, squeezing his shoulder tight before letting go. She was already out into the hall when she remembered and turned back. "Oh, by the way—Tasha wanted me to ask if she could come to your bachelor party next weekend, too. Since she's going to be your best woman and everything, I told her it was fine, but she wanted me to check with you just in case. Nothing too testosterone-fueled, right? You said you were just going to Kurt's to watch the game with some of the guys and go out to bars. It's fine if she swings by for a bit, isn't it?"

"Uh, sure, fine," Reade replied, trying not to let the _God damn it, Tasha_ that was roiling under his tongue slip out from between his teeth. He knew this was a threat from Zapata and not an idle one at that—she'd show up, there was no doubt in his mind. She'd show up, and he would never hear the end of it, for all the rest of his married life, if his wife-to-be went out and partied and danced with naked men while he sat on his ass, drinking beer and watching football with the same four guys he saw every week. He could not spend the rest of his life like that. He would not live under constant threat of Zapata's merciless taunting.

And so the second Sarah was out the door, Reade called her brother.

"Weller, about next weekend? I think we need to change our plans."

* * *

Seven days later, after a steady night of drinking at too many bars to count, let alone remember, the men ended up outside the Amber Room, stalling. They huddled a couple doors down from the seductively dark, canopied entrance of the gentlemen's club like a bunch of eighteen-year-olds with their new fakes, each too nervous to approach the bouncer and risk being deemed a fraud. It was warm enough out that they weren't shivering, but the anxious tics and drunken swaying amounted to the same thing. They all looked out of place, and they all knew it, but they were just drunk enough and just proud enough that no one was ready to call it quits yet. They stood in a loose circle, not wanting to be too close together but also not wanting to drift too far apart. Each fidgeted in his own way, battling cowardice and expectation, decency and illicit curiosity.

Reade kept looking down either side of the street, as if his fiancée might show up at any moment (either to yell at him or rescue him, he didn't know); Kurt kept crossing and uncrossing his arms, sighing and taking turns staring at his shoes or at the sky; Oscar kept fiddling with his wedding ring and checking his phone, as if hoping to see an emergency text from Jane that would save him from this; the two other men, old Quantico buddies of Reade's, were arguing about some cold case no one cared about, simply because they couldn't stand the silence of the other three. Finally, after a good ten minutes of deliberating, Reade elbowed Oscar and nodded at the entrance.

"Brenton, you go first."

"What? Why me?" He, like the others, was well on his way to a personal best for number of drinks consumed in one night, and so the words he'd meant to keep to a whisper came out closer to a shout. No one in their group seemed to notice, though the bouncers did give them a wary glance. But they'd been giving them wary glances for a while now.

"Because. You look—" Reade searched for the least offensive word. "—experienced."

" _Experienced_? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Oscar looked at the others, appealing for help, for reason, but they all nodded somberly as if they agreed with Reade. "Are you kidding me?" he demanded, furious now. "What is it about me that makes you all think I frequent strip clubs?"

"Let's call it your mysterious side," Kurt replied dryly. He thrust his chin towards the entrance. "Now go already, so we can stop looking like idiots out here. Move."

"You go!" Oscar shot back, shrinking further away from the entrance. "You move! I'm not gonna let you guys gang up on me just because you're all too—"

"Too chicken?" a smug voice supplied from behind them.

They all turned to find Tasha grinning, eyes roaming happily from one embarrassed face to the next.

"Well?" she asked, propping a hand on her hip. "Are you boys actually gonna man up and head in, or are you gonna sit out here on your asses all night?" Her gaze fell on Reade, her smirk widening. "Because I can tell you right now, Sarah didn't show _any_ hesitation."

* * *

Jane was asleep when she got the call. Her first reaction was panic—in her experience, a phone ringing in the middle of the night was never a good thing—and she lunged groggily for her cell, shoving sleep aside as she fought for memory. The other side of the bed was empty, and in her sudden confusion and fear she couldn't remember why. All she could hear was the shrill cry of her phone; all she could picture was her husband in the hospital, fighting for his life, or crumpled on some street corner, dead in a hit-and-run. It was an apologetic doctor on the other side of the phone, informing her she was a widow; it was a police lieutenant, asking her if she could please come downtown.

But then she saw Kurt's name on the display and all the nightmares evaporated as quickly as they'd materialized. She breathed a sigh of relief, remembering where her husband was and why. He wasn't dead. He wasn't in a hospital. He was at Kurt's, eating pizza and drinking beer and watching some football game he probably didn't care about, simply because Reade had asked him.

 _I'm the only married one,_ Oscar had lamented the other month, when he'd told Jane of the invitation to Reade's bachelor party and groused about how awkward it would be—both to accept, and to turn down. _That's the only reason he's inviting me. He doesn't want me there, he just wants tips on how to be a good husband._

 _He's inviting you because he likes you,_ Jane had replied matter-of-factly. _Besides,_ she'd teased, _it isn't like you have any useful tips on the "good husband" front anyway._

Jane smiled at the memory, tapping her phone to answer the call as she lay back in bed. She had the luxury to smile now—and the luxury to be annoyed.

"I was asleep, Weller," she grumbled into the phone. "There better be a good reason for this."

"Not a good reason, exactly," he replied, giddy. He was almost giggling on the other end of the line.

Jane amounted it to the booze. He'd probably had more than a few scotches by now, on top of all the beer. She swallowed a sigh, closing her eyes. She didn't particularly feel like dealing with an inebriated Kurt Weller in the middle of the night, but then again, this was a much better option than the worst-case scenarios she'd been drowning in a moment ago. She could entertain him for a minute or two before hanging up.

"It's two in the morning, Kurt. Why're you calling? Someone better be hurt."

"Oh, your husband's about to be, if he keeps acting like this around the police."

Kurt was snickering, but his words made Jane jolt up in bed. The fear was back again—the blood was rushing quick through her veins and sounding in her ears. The tips of her fingers were starting to go numb with terror as she clenched the phone.

_Police?_

"What do you mean, police? _Kurt_! What happened? Where are you? What's wrong with—"

Her voice was drained out as yelling filled the background of the call. Jane could clearly hear a number of male voices, and even more clearly, louder than all the rest, she could hear Oscar's. He was shouting something about the ineptitude of the NYPD and the "real crime" of wasting taxpayer dollars, but she didn't listen long enough to hear the rest of his litany of insults.

"Kurt. _Kurt_! Please don't let him get arrested. _Please_. You know he can't handle that; you know what being behind bars is like for him—"

Kurt snorted, returning to the phone. "Yeah, I _do_ know. I put him there. And you too, if you recall."

Usually Jane would point out the fact that she and Oscar turned themselves in _voluntarily_ , looking for the FBI's help in taking down the shadowy organization they'd once been a part of, but Jane didn't have the time nor the inclination to rehash the past right now. She set Kurt on speakerphone while she hurried around the room, grabbing pants and a shirt and her coat. She had her keys and her wallet in her hand and was looking for her shoes when she heard the yelling intensify in the background again.

"Kurt!" she yelled through the cacophony. "Do me this favor, _please_. Just keep him safe until I get there. I'll come as quick as I can, just tell me where you are. When he left, Oscar said he was going to your place. Are you still in the Village?"

"Ah, you know, funny story about that…"

* * *

Kurt met her two blocks away from the patrol car because, even that far away, he could see she was furious. He might be drunk, but spotting Jane's anger was a talent (or, more often, a survival technique) that thankfully didn't fade with intoxication. He caught her just as she stepped onto the curb, putting his hands on her shoulders as much to stop her as to steady himself.

"Look, Jane, it's not a big deal—"

She shoved his hands off at once. "The police were called, Kurt! I'd say it's a big deal!" She shook her head, lips pursed in anger as she continued forward, striding quickly down the street. "I'm gonna kill him," she growled. "I'm gonna kill him, and then I'm gonna kill you. I swear to God."

"Jane, calm down—"

"Calm down?!" she yelled, whirling around. "Do not tell me to 'calm down'! I will not _calm down_!"

"Did you…" A snicker escaped from behind Kurt's grin. "Did you just make air quotes with your hands there? Seriously, Jane?"

"Shut up," she muttered, facing forward again. She started to walk away, but he grabbed onto her arm, and before he could get out an assured _Take it easy_ , she shoved his hand off and spun around so fast she nearly knocked him to the ground in the process. " _Don't_ tell me what to do!" she ordered. "You're not the boss of me anymore, so take your goddamn hands off me! It is two in the morning, I have to deal with the freaking police—I've had enough tonight. _Enough, Kurt Weller_! So don't add to it!"

For a second, he stared at her, eyes wide and mouth open, and then suddenly he snorted. "You know," he laughed, "just for future reference, my middle name's Michael, if you were going for that whole effect—"

"Oh, shut _up_ ," Jane snapped. She shoved past him one last time, making her way towards the flashing red and blue nights she could see on the next block. Kurt followed behind, still laughing.

"Aw, come on," he called after her, jogging and stumbling to keep up. "It was just a noise disturbance, no big deal. They're not gonna lock him up or anything, they just want him released to family, given—you know—his condition." He moved in front of her, managing to block her path mostly due to sheer size. "But Jane, I'm serious: _please_ calm down, okay? You won't increase your chances of getting him off the hook if you show up pissed off like this. They're expecting his wife to be—"

"Given the establishment he got arrested outside of, I think _exactly_ what they're expecting is for his wife to be pissed off."

"Wait…" A grin pulled at the corner of Kurt's mouth. "Are you actually mad at him over this? Are you _jealous_? Oh, dear God, please tell me you're jealous. Please tell me you're going to throw a fit out here on the street."

"I don't throw _fits_ ," Jane muttered, pushing him aside. "And for the record," she added as she started forward again and he stubbornly kept pace with her, "if I _were_ mad, I'd be mad at you, too. Strippers—are you serious? Do you _want_ to be a cliché, Weller?"

"Hey, if anyone's going to be a cliché, it's your husband over there. From what I could see, the clientele was mostly married men. And it wasn't my idea!" he quickly added at the withering look on Jane's face. "It was Reade's bachelor party, he called the shots, and he said he wanted—"

Jane snorted. "Bullshit, Reade wanted! I bet he was having a panic attack the entire time you were in there, terrified that Sarah was going to find out. No way he wanted this."

"I can't deny he wasn't anxious," Kurt admitted with a laugh, remembering the look on his almost-brother-in-law's face when they'd walked in earlier. "But get enough drinks in him and he'll be on board with anything."

"Wow, what a stand-up friend you are. I can't _imagine_ why he didn't pick you to be his best man."

"Hey, at least I wasn't the one in there with a ring on my finger!" Kurt shot back.

"Right, like you being single and absolutely plastered makes you somehow more noble!"

"I'd say it does! And why are you making this stink about me being drunk? It's an act of necessity in those places—you can't survive in a strip club if you're sober! You don't know what it's like in there!"

"Oh, yes," Jane rolled her eyes. "I imagine it was a trial! Naked women coming on to you left and right, what a hell you were in!"

"It's really not as fun as it sounds. And hey—" He stopped walking, a self-satisfied grin stretching over his face. "You think the strippers came on to me?"

"You have money, Kurt. Coming on to men with money is literally in their job description."

"Oh, I thought you were gonna say it was because I was so _unbelievably_ attractive."

She glared at him. "Do I look like I'm going to be throwing out compliments to you tonight?"

"You should be. I saved that idiot of yours from another jail cell. You _owe_ me," he grinned, leaning towards her.

She stood her ground and stared up at him, her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you coming on to _me_ now?"

He blinked, her indignation momentarily sobering him. He stepped away and shoved his hands in his pockets. "No. Sorry."

"Good," she snapped, turning on her heel towards the next block. She could see the policemen now; one was waiting for her just a few yards away. He was a tall, thin, tired-looking African American man, and he stepped forward to stop her on the next corner. Apparently her fury preceded her enough for easy identification.

"You're Mrs. Brenton?" He gestured down the block, where his partner stood next to a man who didn't seem to remember how to remain upright. "That one your husband, ma'am?"

"Well, yes, he's my husband, but I'm not Mrs.—" She broke off and shook her head, figuring it wasn't best to start parsing out the details of her legal name to this police officer. It wasn't as if saying her name was Jane Doe was going to help her case. "Yes, I'm Mrs. Brenton," she answered quickly.

The officer frowned at the vacillation, but let it slide. Clearly he wanted to get out of this filthy corner of the city just as much as she did.

"Well, ma'am, I have to inform you that your husband is being a public nuisance."

"Yeah, and you can bet he's a private one, too," Jane muttered under her breath. At a look from the officer, she sighed and rubbed a hand against the side of her face. "I'm sorry. It's been a long night. Can you please just explain to me what happened?"

"Sure. As I'm sure your friend told you on the phone," the officer began with a nod to Kurt, "we got a call about a half-hour ago that some men were getting rowdy. We pulled up here, saw your husband and some of his buddies. He was being incredibly loud, more so than the others, and was obviously very inebriated—"

"Yeah, I can deduce that for myself, thanks," Jane interrupted. "Can we please get to the part where you put handcuffs on him—and why?"

"Right, well, following protocol, I walked up to your husband, introduced myself, and reminded him that while public intoxication is not a crime in this state, disorderly conduct _is_ , and I said, 'Sir, if you don't tone it down, I can have you arrested.' And he—" The officer paused, and pulled out a small paper pad from his back pocket to check his notes. "He said—and I'm quoting here—he said, 'I'd like to see you fucking try, asshole.'"

"Jesus Christ, Oscar," Jane whispered. To the officer, she said, "Please, _please_ tell me he didn't—"

"Ma'am, he didn't lay a hand, but that doesn't detract from the fact that he threatened to. Now—" He met her eye with a stern look in his. "To be honest, ma'am, it's Saturday night. We've got a hundred of these complaints coming in every hour, and many a good deal more serious than this one. If you can keep him quiet and take him home, we'll let him go without any charges. But if we get another call—"

"You won't get another call, I promise," Jane rushed to say. "He'll shut up. He won't speak again. Ever."

The officer's mouth twitched into a smile at her immediate and uncompromising response. "Seems you appeal to the same sense of justice as my own wife."

"Oh, you have no fuckin' idea," Kurt put in gleefully from behind her.

Jane barely resisted the urge to turn around and punch him in the face. Instead, she took a very deep breath, managed her most pleasant, law-abiding smile, and met the policeman's eyes.

"I'm very sorry about the nuisance, officer. I promise I've got it under control. My husband's just had a lot to drink and he doesn't usually drink, so I apologize for the scene he caused. I swear he won't be a disturbance to anyone else. If you could please uncuff him…"

The officer listened to her plea in stoic silence, and then shrugged when she finished, as if to say, _Your funeral_. He turned and gestured to his partner, who uncuffed Oscar and then helped him to steady himself. Even then, Oscar had to wrap an arm around a nearby stop sign to keep himself upright. But at least he was up—and his face broke into the widest grin when he finally spotted who had saved him.

"Janie!" he cried happily, lifting the one hand that had been supporting him up so he could wave, and nearly falling over in the process.

Kurt nearly fell over laughing.

" _Stop it_ ," Jane snarled over her shoulder. "This is _your_ fault, Weller."

" _My_ fault?!" The laughter disappeared from Kurt's face immediately. "It's not _my_ fault he got himself piss-drunk! It's not _my_ fault he picks fights with authority, the fucking anarchist!"

Jane ignored him, focusing instead on reaching her husband before he tipped backwards into traffic. She grabbed the hem of his coat, hauling him back into some semblance of a standing position.

He smiled down at her as he steadied himself, cooing, "Hi, baby. I'm so happy you're here. I missed you."

" _Don't_ ," she snapped.

He swayed precariously, staring down at her with bleary eyes and a frown. "Are we in a fight, Janie?"

"Yes," she answered shortly. "So stop talking."

"But we always talk when we fight," he protested.

"Oh yeah?" Kurt called from behind them. "And how often is that?"

"Why don't you be useful, Weller, and get us a cab?" Jane yelled, attempting to hold Oscar upright as he began to sway again and lose his footing. She grabbed him before he could tip back into his street, but they both ended up on their knees on the filthy sidewalk. She had a deathgrip on his collar and she shook it so hard his head lolled.

"Do you know how stupid you look right now?" she hissed. "Do you know how stupid you've made _me_ look, for having married you?"

"Mm, not stupid," Oscar shook his head decisively. "Us getting married was a smart decision. The smartest. Ask anybody."

Jane snorted. "I'm pretty sure if I asked anyone around here, they'd say—"

"Jane!"

She turned at Weller's call, sighing with relief when she saw he had a cab.

"Oh, thank God."

She got to her feet, reaching down to help Oscar up only when it became obvious that he wasn't able to get up himself. She had him halfway up when she heard the screech of tires pull away, and by the time she glanced over, the cab was gone and Kurt was yelling curses after it.

"It's fine," he yelled back to her, waving off what he knew would be complaints, "it's fine, I'll get another cab, I'll find one."

But Jane knew every other cab would have the same reaction as the first. Gritting her teeth, she hoisted Oscar up as best she could and made her way over to where Kurt was trying and failing to hail another cab. As he cursed out the third driver to deny him, Jane came up beside him.

"Don't bother," she told Kurt with a sigh. "Not a single cab in the city will take us, not even if we pay double. Just look at him."

"No, I'll get one," Kurt argued, waving her away. "And he doesn't look that bad!"

"You must be drunker than him if you think that. He looks like shit. If a coroner were here, they'd declare him dead."

"Except, you know, he's still breathing."

"Please don't kill me," Oscar mumbled into his wife's shoulder. "Don't want to be dead."

Jane ignored him. After a fifth cab veered away from them, Jane yanked Kurt's arm out of the air. "Give it a rest, will you? No one will stop for us. Stop wasting your time with the cabs, and help me walk him home."

Kurt's eyes widened. "Walk him— _what_? Why me? Since when do _I_ have to help?"

"Oh, I don't know," Jane snapped impatiently, "maybe since you started getting my husband hammered!"

"For the tenth time, that wasn't my fault! Don't pin this on me, Jane!" When she looked unconvinced, he turned to her husband. "C'mon, Brenton, tell her. You got drunk all by yourself, didn't you? Didn't you? Nobody _made_ you drink anything—"

"Don't treat him like one of your stupid witnesses!" Jane snarled. "This isn't an interrogation; you don't need to talk to him like—"

"Jane," Kurt interrupted sharply. "You need to—"

Jane groaned so loud she nearly screamed. But was a struggle to yell and keep Oscar upright at the same time; he was swaying dangerously, and she had to work to keep him steady. "I swear to god, Weller, if you tell me to calm down _one more time_ —"

"Jane, _move_!"

"What? Why are you—"

But before she could finish asking, she knew the reason why—only a second too late. But luckily Kurt had sensed it a second too early. He managed to yank her out of the way just before Oscar vomited all over the spot where Jane had been standing.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I hope you have enjoyed the story. There is, of course, more shenanigans to come in chapter two. :)


End file.
